My daughter stood on her tiptoes and reached into the fridge for a snack, then brought it over for help opening it. She poured herself a cup of water. When we moved into this house, her curly head barely reached the bottom of the refrigerator door. The water dispenser was way out of reach. I no longer have to interrupt my workout when she needs a snack. Little things, big milestones. Every day I am awestruck by how she unfurls into the world.
When I learn things myself (writing, riding a bike, learning to be patient, whatever), I feel pride and growth. When she learns, I feel mostly wonder. Pride, as all parents feel, I suppose, but mostly awe. Things I didn't know before becoming a parent: that it is possible to look at another human being and see them at all their ages at once, a continuum of being from past to future. Her five-year-old body, no longer covered in baby fat, holds floppy, fuzzy newborn heft and the promise of long muscle. This growth is an eventuality both mundane and mind-blowing.
There is obvious wonder in expansion and possibility. Can I approach the other end of life with the same sense of awe? Human brains shrink with age. The change is as irreversible as my daughter outgrowing her onesies. Each day she grows is a day of babyhood that will never return. We shed memories old and new all the time. The mystery of forgetting: How this person who does not remember talking to me five minutes ago still knows my dislike of cooked carrots when she stirs them into lunch. This is mundane miracle too, when a mind sheds the world that is too much.
Can I learn to be amazed instead of afraid? Can I learn to love the colors instead of regretting the end of summer? Fall was always my favorite season.
[Post title: "Oh, would that my mind could let fall its dead ideas, as the tree does its withered leaves! And without too many regrets, if possible! Those from which the sap has withdrawn. But, good Lord, what beautiful colors!” -- Andre Gide]
